Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Jennifer Skully

  He enunciated clearly. “If he gets tonight with you, then I get tomorrow night.”

  “Whatever for?” She stared at him as if he’d sprouted a thousand snakes from his bald head.

  He wagged his finger at her. “Or I can just follow you through the park.”

  “All right. But this won’t be a date or anything, will it? It’ll just be an outing.”

  She could call it whatever she wanted, but she’d kissed him back, and she’d liked it. He hadn’t a doubt about that. “Deal. An outing.”

  “Why do I think I just got suckered?”

  He smiled. She was going to get a helluva lot more than suckered, though that was a good place to start.

  She tipped her head. “Where are you taking me?”

  Ah, that was the question, how did he top a picnic in the park, romantically speaking? He hadn’t a clue. “It’s a surprise.”

  Her eyes sparkled. Gotcha. Madison loved surprises. “Oh come on, tell me. How will I know what to wear?”

  Anything she wore would do just fine. “Let’s worry about that later.”

  Madison tapped her shoe. “All right. Did you call me in for something else?”

  Foiled. He’d called her in simply to see her. “Pull the file for,” and he threw off a garbled name she wouldn’t understand while he cleared his thoughts.

  “Who?” Her thumb worked its way beneath the beads around her neck, pulling as if the baubles were strung on elastic, then let it snap back in place.

  “The file for…” He stared at the hollow of her throat. “What’s that thing you’re wearing?”

  She tilted her chin back and pulled on the necklace until she could see it. “It’s candy.”

  “Candy?” His voice rose like an adolescent boy’s.

  “Yeah. You eat it like this.” She tugged a bead into her mouth, bit it off, sucked on it, then licked her lips. Her cherry-red lipstick somehow managed to stay in place.

  His head would surely explode. “And you wore that for him?”

  “No, I wore it for Kirsten.”

  “Kirsten?”

  “My niece. You remember, at the party, she gave it to me?”

  All he remembered was that kiss at the end of the night. “You can’t wear that at work.”

  “It’ll be gone before the end of the day.”

  It would be gone before he let her out of his office. He half rose from his chair with the psychotic idea of chewing the thing right off her neck. And he wouldn’t stop there.

  He might have done it, too, if Jeremiah Carp hadn’t rapped on his open door. “I need Harriet.”

  Harriet who?

  “She called in sick today,” Madison supplied.

  “The girl’s never sick.” Jeremiah sucked in his big belly, pursed his fleshy lips and puffed out his cheeks in a very good imitation of the fish he was named for.

  “She is today.”

  Laurence had yet to find his voice when Jeremiah lumbered from the doorway, but at least he was in his chair, his demented urges in check. Momentarily. Unless he didn’t get Madison out of his office. “That’s all for now.”

  “But you never even told me what you wanted me to do.”

  His thoughts about her were plainly wrong. At least in the confines of the workplace. They were, in fact, unjustified at any time. Laurence couldn’t help himself, but he could spare her any more embarrassing ogling today.

  “Close the door on your way out.”

  She stood and backed away from him, her brow creased with worry lines. “Should I call a doctor, T. Larry?”

  A psychiatrist. “No.”

  She pursed her pretty lips. “I’ll check on you later then.”

  God forbid.

  She closed the door.

  Laurence beat his head on his desk three times.

  MAYBE SHE SHOULD HAVE given T. Larry a bead to chew on. Candy medicine, Madison thought as she heard him start banging his head again. She looked at her calendar to check if it was a full moon. Nope, but marked clearly was the fact that only ten days remained until her birthday. Ten and a half, if she counted today. Then her phone chirped.

  “You better get out here right away. There’s someone—” Rhonda Templin in reception said, panic vibrating in her voice.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s someone for T. Larry.”

  Madison wasted no time in coming to Rhonda’s rescue. The reception area being small and enclosed and the man being so large, Madison couldn’t miss him. They should provide bigger chairs, or ones without arms. The poor man overflowed the tastefully pastel seat, sweat beading his upper lip and forehead.

  Madison leaned over Rhonda’s desk to whisper. “Turn up the air-conditioning.”

  Rhonda’s eyes protruded in her thin face, as if she’d never seen a person of such large proportions. “Here’s his card.” She gulped air down her windpipe. “He’s a lawyer.”

  The card trembled in her hand. Once relieved of its burden, the appendage shot beneath the desk.

  “Don’t tell him my name.” Lawyers terrified Rhonda. Once a hairdresser, she’d been sued by a client when the woman’s hair fell out after a perm. Rhonda swore the hair had been falling out in clumps before the perm, which was why the hapless woman wanted it done in the first place.

  Rhonda lost, vowing never again to touch another person’s hair. Not even her own. Which was obvious. Her dark roots had grown out down to her ear lobes, and from there her hair was a faded platinum blond in varying choppy lengths. On the up side, she was under thirty, favored black clothes and nail polish and could say she’d purposely chosen a punk-rock hairstyle.

  Madison looked at the business card, then the man and back to the card again. What a wonderful name, such a delightful rhythm to it. Harold. Or Harry. “Mr. Dump, how can I help you?”

  “It’s pronounced Doomp,” he said, “as in oom-pahpah. The first name is Harold.” With a hand on the armrest to the right, then the left, he rose with a rolling motion and an effort that sent droplets of perspiration hurtling into his too-tight collar.

  Harry Dump’s oversize briefcase pulled his arm down almost to the floor, giving him the appearance of a listing barge. Extending his other hand, he wagged Madison’s arm until the bones in her neck jarred. The scent of shoe polish rose from his plump, greasy fingers.

  Stepping back, she could now see the scars in his battered briefcase had been blacked with shoe polish. His bulk stretched the repaired seams of his blue suit jacket and a fresh pink carnation covered the lapel shiny with overuse. Laundry soap lingered beneath the odor of polish.

  “You don’t look like a T. Laurence Hobbs.” Dimples bracketed his mouth.

  His smile infected her. Madison laughed. “I’m his secretary. Madison O’Donnell.”

  The dimples turned into exclamation points, and his blue eyes glowed. “My dear, secretary is a term from the pre-female-emancipation days, and it’s demeaning. Your job description should be Executive Assistant,” he said with capital letters.

  She took his game one step further to see his reaction. “But the term Secretary oozes sex appeal.”

  He sighed, his chest puffing up impossibly. With sleight of hand, another business card appeared in his palm. “Take this, my dear. Women don’t have to use sex appeal to get ahead these days. Your boss is obviously living in the dark ages.”

  Madison got a very bad feeling about the reason for Harry Dump’s visit. “Mr. Hobbs is very busy right now. Perhaps we can schedule an appointment.” Say for next year.

  “Oh, I think he’ll want to see me.”

  “Can I tell him what this is about?” Madison was dying to know.

  “Tell him I’ve been retained on behalf of Harriet Hartman.”

  Rhonda gasped, and Madison thanked God for the enclosed reception area.

  If T. Larry hadn’t already given himself a concussion, Mr. Dump would give him a coronary.

  Especially after Rhonda broadcast the news to the whole firm.

  �
�I’ll be right back.” She beat it out of there, hoping Harry Dump didn’t take a seat again. Getting up had seemed such a painful process.

  Hopefully T. Larry would refuse to see him, she thought as she knocked on his office door.

  “I COULD TELL HIM you’re indisposed.”

  Madison’s worry disturbed him, but Laurence didn’t push off bad situations, especially not ones which involved Harriet. Not after last Friday. “I’m not indisposed.”

  “Then I’ll tell him you’re busy.”

  “Madison—”

  “It’s a secretary’s responsibility to fob off people her boss doesn’t want to see.” She twisted her finger in the candy necklace.

  “You’re a wonderful secretary. But fobbing off people isn’t in your job description.”

  “But he said you should call me your Executive Assistant. He said the word secretary is demeaning.” Her hand quivered.

  His head ached. Pounding his forehead against the desk again didn’t seem propitious. “Have I ever demeaned you?”

  In his fantasies, he’d demeaned her all morning. Like sugarplum fairies dancing through a child’s dream, the feel of her lips beneath his and the phantom taste of candy necklaces had irreverently flitted through his mind. Much to his chagrin.

  Madison leaned on his desk, the scoop neckline falling away to reveal a deadly amount of cleavage. “There was that birthday when you smirked because I dropped a strawberry down my shirt.”

  He did his level best to keep his gaze on hers. Unfortunately, the emerald sparkle in her eyes entranced him. He kept himself on track. Barely.

  “I didn’t smirk.” At the time, he’d been too busy thinking about how he’d help her clean up the whipped cream that had fallen along with the strawberry. “I told everyone to stop smirking.”

  Damn. He hadn’t merely “noticed” Madison. He’d been having salacious, demeaning thoughts about her. This was not a new phenomenon. They’d paved the way for these uncontrollable lustful urges he now harbored towards her.

  “Send him in, Madison.” Things couldn’t get much worse anyway. He was guilty of sexual harassment, even if he’d never acted on it prior to Saturday night.

  Madison’s eyes, with their lovely shade of green, widened with unease. “Remember his name is Doomp.”

  Laurence glanced at the card. “It looks like Dump.”

  “It’s not pronounced that way. And don’t call him Harry.”

  “You did.”

  “Not to his face.”

  “Get him.” He waved her off with a negligent hand, but his gaze when she turned was anything but. Her hips swayed, the skirt swished, and Laurence almost groaned aloud.

  Maybe he should fire her. For her own good. She desperately needed protection from him.

  Then Harry Dump could file a suit on her behalf. The lawyer would definitely have a case.

  “How many times on the morning in question did you visualize your Executive Assistant in the nude, Mr. Hobbs?”

  “At least every eight seconds. And do you want to know the things I visualized during the other seven seconds?”

  A collective gasp from the courtroom, his fantasies showing above his head like a cartoon bubble.

  “Your Honor, this man is guilty.”

  To his discredit, he smelled her return before he saw her, flowers and strawberries with whipped cream.

  Guilty, guilty, guilty.

  Harry Dump followed, turning sideways to fit through the door. Creaking like an old shoe, he smelled like leather polish.

  “Please make yourself comfortable on the sofa, Mr. Doomp.”

  Obviously Madison realized the man would never fit the chair opposite Laurence’s desk.

  Awestruck, Laurence didn’t offer him coffee. So Madison did. Harry Dump refused.

  “You can go now, Madison.”

  She raised a hopeful brow. “I could take dictation.”

  Which she couldn’t, never having learned shorthand. She was, however, excellent at a computer, with good command of grammar and vocabulary. She could also charm his clients, make them laugh and put them at ease. In his line, that was her most important quality.

  His current visitor, however, didn’t need charming. Laurence pointed at the door.

  Harry Dump avidly followed her exit, eyes on her shapely bottom, then her spiked shoes.

  “Hot little number, isn’t she?”

  Laurence’s stomach burned hearing the words on Harry Dump’s lips. “Her name is Madison O’Donnell. That’s the only way you’ll refer to her in my presence, Dump.”

  “Doomp.” Harry raised a surrendering hand surrounded by a frayed cuff. “I was testing. Hostile work environment, you know, fostered by the employer. Have to have verification of our claim.” Harry smiled. A dimple appeared. “You passed, by the way. This time.”

  Laurence didn’t believe the excuse for a moment. Harry had enjoyed ogling Madison’s rear view. That fact only served to spike Laurence’s guilt, and with it, his politeness quotient dropped. He would protect Madison, from tire slashers, ogling attorneys and most especially himself. Not another salacious thought would cross his mind.

  The devil on his shoulder snickered.

  Harry stroked a hand down his massive front. The faded tie had seen too many washings that failed to completely expunge a tenacious gravy stain.

  “What is it you want, Dump?”

  “Doomp.” He set his briefcase on legs splayed to provide a table. Snap, snap, the latches unlocked, the abused lid rose, held open by Harry’s ringless left hand as his head disappeared from the eyes down. Papers shuffled; he coughed, shuffled again.

  Harriet had found an ambulance chaser, a lawyer thin in the pockets. The irony of his name wasn’t wasted on Laurence, either. Harriet and Harold, an unbeatable combination. The band of his wristwatch had been stapled together, and his head sprouted an abominable comb-over shellacked in place with a bottle of dime-store hair gel.

  Have some respect for yourself, Laurence wanted to say. Cut off that ridiculous hair and be proud of your bald head.

  “Here it is.” As if Harry Dump had so many cases and so many papers. Snap, snap, the top of his briefcase closed again, and a thick folder Laurence was sure could only be filled with blank pages flopped atop the lid. “As your assistant informed you, I’m here on behalf of Miss Harriet Hartman who has come forward with a complaint against—”

  “So Harriet lied about being sick.”

  “Are you calling my client a liar?”

  “I would never call Harriet a liar.” Especially not to her lawyer. “I merely wanted to point out that while she was seeing you this morning, she claimed to be sick.”

  “First, I don’t believe I said when I had discussions with my client, and secondly, your company accounts for ‘personal’ time, not sick time. ‘Personal’ time can be used for—” Harry spread his hands eloquently “—anything an employee deems…personal.”

  Damn, how had Madison talked him into that terminology?

  It became clear Harriet had been harboring resentment far longer than last week’s incident. Laurence realized he had done little to defuse it, though, in his defense, he’d had the terrible trio, Mike, Anthony and Bill, in his office more than once for a good dressing-down. Had he adequately documented those stern talks?

  “Now, as I was saying, our suit is against the employer, that being you, due to a failure on your part to effectively discipline the employees, those being specifically one Zachary Eric Zenker and one Madison O’Donnell, and thus allowing the hostile work environment to breed.” He put emphasis on the word as if to indicate the sexual nature of the situation.

  “Why Madison?” What on earth did Harriet have against her?

  “In more than one instance, Ms. Hartman has told you that Ms. O’Donnell’s attire is inappropriate and fosters a negative work environment.”

  Harriet complained bitterly about the length of Madison’s skirts and the tightness of her sweaters. She complained at the Christm
as party and the company picnic. She’d cornered him in his office. Somehow, Harriet had developed a profound jealousy over the fact that Madison’s breasts and legs looked better than hers.

  Laurence had the good sense not to voice that thought aloud. He’d instead extolled Harriet’s accounting virtues, each and every one of which he’d appreciated wholeheartedly.

  She had becoming attributes, such as her intelligence, her ability to find every loophole the tax laws allowed, her exemplary number of billable hours. As opposed to a woman like Madison, who, no matter how nice her legs might be—he hadn’t said that part aloud—was strictly overhead. Harriet had not appreciated the comparison despite his best efforts. Laurence, in a word, had failed. He hated failure.

  Yet he had one trump card Harry obviously knew nothing about. “Harriet has, on occasion, worn skirts of equal brevity as compared to Miss O’Donnell’s. I can provide several witnesses to that fact, which, I’m afraid, nullifies her complaint.”

  Harry smiled. “My dear Mr. Hobbs, it is not the garb itself, but the unequal treatment based upon the garb which has created the hostile environment. Ms. Hartman is a very sensitive young woman.” The lawyer was a master of understatement. “My client’s physical assets have been reduced to office targets. Unable to cite names due to the fact that most comments are made behind her back, Ms. Hartman has nevertheless been subjected to profoundly cruel harassment on the part of her coworkers.”

  Bill, Anthony and Mike had belittled Harriet one too many times, damn them. He couldn’t blame Harriet for her anger. God. He’d gotten his MBA so he could become a babysitter. Didn’t they teach the ills of harassment in grammar school? He suddenly thought of the bully of his class tearing into a poor overweight kid. Children could be a vicious lot. The terrible trio obviously hadn’t learned anything in the ensuing twenty years since they’d left their elementary days behind.

  Harry pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, held it poised in one hand. “I can only begin to imagine the damage to Ms. Hartman’s psyche.”

  He stopped, blew his nose. His eyes sparkled with—God forbid—moisture. Tears. Emotion. Pain. Empathy?

  The man seemed to believe everything he was saying on Harriet’s behalf. He hadn’t taken the case for the money. Well, he probably had, but he also believed in Harriet’s pain. He held himself aloft as a champion of the underdog. Or the overendowed.